


Remnants of a Lullaby

by AlphaPockets



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Death Eater Ministry, F/F, F/M, M/M, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Not Epilogue Compliant, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Power Imbalance, Prostitution, Resistance, Slavery, Werewolf Mafia, Werewolves, harry died
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2019-09-17 11:43:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16973970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaPockets/pseuds/AlphaPockets
Summary: When Harry met Voldemort into the woods, he had not brought the stone with him. So when the killing curse hit, he fell to the ground. the sound of his body dropping echoed in the damn evening, as did the cries as his body was carried to the people resisting. 2 May, 1998 brought a world of change to the Magical World in England and the British Isles. Rodolphus became Minister. Rabastan took over the DMLE. Order members and DA members were arrested and sent to Azkaban. A few were claimed by approved hosts for re-education as the Ministry worked out new laws on Muggleborn education, registration, and control. And while the five-year-plan is underway, those few left on the run try to find a way to turn the tides again.





	1. Chapter One: A Year Later

**Author's Note:**

> This was a writing game idea my beloved Kassi came up with, but it never saw playtime. With her permission, I have taken over the story arch and am looking to let her genius see the light of day. This is going to be a lot darker than most my other fics as a warning. Just had to get through the first chapter.

Lavender looked at the calendar on the wall. It was the second. A day that most people found polarizing in their mind. A year ago, she remembered only part of the fateful night. She remembered how she heard the battle begin. She stood there with her classmates, tall and proud. On the side of Harry. The side of McGonagall. The side of Neville, who went above and beyond to provide and protect every student he could when Luna vanished and Ginny was forced into hiding. She remembered the fighting and the panic coursing through her when Padma darted down a hallway after Ernie and Anthony. Then it all got fuzzy. Then black. The next thing she remembered was a month later. She remembered hearing the world changed.

Harry was dead. The world they fought for was taken over. Voldemort and the Death Eaters now ruled the magical world. With the Order of the Phoenix now in Azkaban and many of her friends either there or somehow worse, Lavender was stuck asking what happened. She was in St. Mungo’s, in an isolation ward. Her neck and shoulder had been gored to a point of permanent scarring bubbling out. A distinct indentation sat between distinct marks. She does not remember the body slamming her to the ground, or the pain before her body went into shock. But she heard from her healer that she had been attacked by Fenrir Greyback during the battle. And the reason she was not brought to Azkaban with the other traitors was that she had been taken in by the man under the Rehabilitation Act. She owed him her freedom in a world she was not sure how to navigate. But it was a journey she did not make for a while.

Healing was tricky. Even in human form, the werewolf’s saliva and bite were magical. She was avoided for the most part as a traitor to the new Ministry. Yet, under new werewolf laws, she was protected by Fenrir’s claim. It was something she was unaware of for a long time. She just knew the process of becoming set up outside of the hospital now that she had been dragged through the mud ruled her world for months. She remembered the apartment. It was a closet compared to what she had been raised in. A studio in a terrible part of London so she could work at Diagon Alley in the back of the apothecary. She cut and sorted potion ingredients for a wage she barely lived on. Her life was choosing between either rent or food more often than not. And every time she struggled, he would arrive. At first it was terrifying. Lavender had figured he was there to finish the job. Then, she felt like he was toying with her. Essentially playing with his food. But it would come with gifts. Food to eat, better blankets. He had replaced what was stolen when her flat was broken into in October and brought blankets in December.

But the gifts were not altruistic in nature. Lavender knew that she was eventually going to have to pay forward what she owed with these gifts. Essentially, he had marked her existence in her debt. She owned him for everything she had. And when it came time to give back? Lavender was relieved it was only physically. It seemed since the formation of the new Werewolf Laws, someone had taught Fenrir the importance of bathing and acting mildly human. At least enough to be passing in the world. His actions were all still very animalistic. He was a wolf trapped inside the skin of a man, one who was vicious and wild. But he had decided he wanted Lavender. She had now seen what would come of her life if she did not give in. And so she did. The first few times were followed by nights in tears. He never lingered, so it was a fate she could handle alone. But with every visit for her owed debt, there had been the lingering question of what was next. And worse, what was happening to her now that she had submitted to him.

She was not turned. She was not protected under the same laws those in his pack had been now that they were formed. A registered werewolf who was also registered with one of two packs gained protection from discrimination. For all the negative and evil that was coming from this, at least there was that. The point of view was a bit like firing an arrow and painting a target around it, but still. Some good came out of everything bad, perhaps. But she was not part of that. She was only allowed freedom from jail and right to work. She was being rehabilitated. That did not mean she was illegal to hire, but association with Lavender was as bad as, say, Ginny. If the girl had been free to walk and not apparently stuck playing housemaid to one of the Lestrange brothers. 

With end of winter approaching, Fenrir had given Lavender a proposition. Come to the pack grounds in Scotland, and he would offer her protection, comforts, and care. She would be part of the pack, and give her allegiance to him. She could find her own way to give back to the pack, but she would be hosted by him. Personally. She knew what he meant, but she also knew it was foolish to not give in. She was not a fool blinded by her own ego, and she was not strong enough to get by much longer with no support system. She bowed her head in resignation and stood in the corner to allow Fenrir to pack her stuff into a bag. And with that, he had turned and given her back her wand. The one she was banned from using because of her involvement in the DA. 

Life in Scotland was no picnic, but it was safer. She arrived in a manor old as time that might have belonged to one of the old families of the country. She would learn later on that the house was chosen and cleared out specifically to host the North Pack’s dealings. She also learned of the mafia-like existence they lead. Fenrir had taken over the Snatcher missions and house calls for political parties on northern Europe. What they also had was a house of pleasure. One that held a few muggleborns and blood traitors for the enjoyment of elite members who wanted something a little taboo. Of course, it was all for the right price. Where some of the people in the pack saw that idea as nothing more than the side of a side business. Lavender saw potential. Not just to make a claim for a better position in the pack, but to hopefully make the prostitutes’ lives better.

She spent a week in between moving into the estate, dodging the other members, and satisfying her host’s needs making plans. She brought it to Fenrir and his Beta with confidence. Raise the bar, raise the class, and get better clientele. She was given until the end of March show she was right and was given permission to access the lower levels of the estate. She took each of the five prostitutes to St. Mungo’s for treatment and care. Cleaned them all personally and fed them. They were given rest and privacy, even from the pack members. And when the hint was put out for after party comforts to a few of the old Death Eaters, Lavender smugly dropped the satchel of coins onto Fenrir’s desk with her brow arched. Each person had doubled their intake in one night from one guest. And a few people had booked with promises of the same amount or more.

Now she sat, a month later, large house not far off official house’s grounds in her own office. She had noticed a long time ago that her senses were heightened thanks to the unnecessary amount of biting Fenrir insisted on. But she knew it was his claim on her. She had both ruined the chance of escaping him and solidified her protection in this business. She had proven herself crafty and competent. There was no affection between them. However, the scent of him filling her office was always a bit of a comfort, especially when it was tied to her safety. Since dropping the coins on his desk a month ago, things changed. Lavender was able to give herself the much-neglected self-love she had missed. Her thick hair was finally in thick chords and pulled back from her face. Her dark brown skin lost the grayish undertone from sickness and malnourishment, and she was slowly putting the weight she had lost back on. She also had a new wardrobe assigned to her and placed in Fenrir’s quarters. Her life was his to micromanage everywhere but in the whorehouse. The greatest gift she received from this whole tragedy was power.

Her eyes scanned over the list of people she needed to attend to that day and sighed. Her favourite of the boys was also the one she wanted to feel the most guilty about. When they first found him, the boy had been appalled that she had allowed herself to be claimed by Fenrir. That she would own a place that used people for money. That she condoned the legal rights of people to waive their jail time for servitude. Her power over what happened in those walls were the only reason he was now at least understanding of the situation. And if anything, he was the one who relished it more than her. 

Her heels clicked as she left her office with the door clicking shut. The walls now permeated a soothing warm scent with the old wood’s natural musk. It was a rich scent for such a place. This house, much like the estate, was cleared specifically for use. Lavender long accepted that it most likely meant the people who lived here were either rehomed or killed. While Fenrir was at least bathing and remembered what utensils were, he was a savage beast. And he liked to kill or hurt people. If anything, he was given a way to get it out of his system when she needed someplace to move the business. They at least cleaned it all. She had put in a tall order for a loan from the substantial Gringotts Vault furnishing the place. She had almost paid it off, and with the contract she was bringing it up, she would break even and get Preston off her back. Lavender climbed to the third floor and walked down a long hall before pushing through double doors and into the most lavish of suites. A worker here who made enough money were allowed to keep a generous portion. Standard workers got a percentage and that was it. But for people like Dean Thomas? He was given money directly from his guests on top of what they paid the pack.

“Well, if it isn’t the Mistress herself,” Dean called from where he was deep in his private area. The echo told her he was in the loo.

“Madam, thank-you very much, Dean,” she replied smoothly as she shut the doors. “Are you decent?”

“You’re asking that. Here?” He stepped out wearing his shorts and a tooth brush sticking out of his mouth.

“Just because I run a house of pleasure does not mean I am in it for the free peep show,” She replied.

“Right, you have the whole not sampling the product rule at this place. Now, is it self-imposed or-” He stopped with a knowing smirk when Lavender glared at him. He just shook his head and walked back into the bathroom to spit out toothpaste. “Why is it he is the only one from the pack I see here, anyway?”

“Because I said so, even then, he’s only allowed on the base floor where your rooms are not,” Lavender replied humourlessly as she dropped into a chair next to the dining room table.

“And he goes along with it,” Dean asked incredulously. He had emerged the bathroom and crossed over to where she sat.

“Even the dominant ones like to be bossed around by the right person,” Lavender told him with a smirk.

“Aye, don’t I know it,” Dean laughed. He looked through the documents she had brought with her. “Who is this for.”

“Burke. The daughter this time, not the old man,” she told him. Dean gave a thoughtful frown before nodding. “Did she not fund half of your entertainment system in the back?”

“She did, indeed,” Dean replied. “How is it you got that here and have cable without anyone knowing?”

Lavender smiled wickedly and leaned forward with her chin propped up on her fist.

“I am the master here.”

Dean leaned forward and pinched her cheeks and laughed. It was nice to be like this with someone. To be young again. The situation was terrible, but they were making the best out of it. And she had her friend back. Safely. He was safer than he had been for two years. Seeing Dean fit, eating, and laughing was what made the self-hate and guilt worth it. She knew she would not have changed the tide of the battle. She still hated being out and free when her friends were not. But, she was trying to do something about it. When not running the quiet rescue mission or coordinating messages to friends on the run where Snatchers were heading, Lavender was now seated next to Fenrir. She was not his second that was Preston. She was his equal now. It meant pushing forward confidence and aggression, it meant being in charge and authoritative with people twice her strength. It meant being more than just who Fenrir decided would be the pretty mate for a while until he killed her off. She knew what happened to the last two. One’s heart was in a vile of his office, though she had tried to kill him, so it was a trophy more than something sentimental. It was now a game of proving she was worth keeping next to him and hoping she outlives him. But in this room, laughing with Dean? She was 19 again. With the doors shut, the rest of the world could not touch them.

It was her domain. Her sanctuary.

“I think I found him,” she told him abruptly. Dean spun on the spot so fast his water splashed over the side of the glass and onto the floor. “Snatchers sent a description that fit him two days ago from Spain. They are on the way back.”

“What, they say he was a mouthy Irish git with a face not even his mother would love,” Dean asked. He tried for funny, but there was pain in his voice. Palpable fear. Seamus would stand trial and be sent to Azkaban. Or be sent to another family to be rehabilitated unless she got to him first.

“More or less. Gave the team the slip for a while. There’s a chance a few others were with him, but he’s the only one they got.” Lavender looked up at Dean’s expressed and stood.

Even in heels she was more than a head shorter than the man, who had grown in their two years apart. She took the glass from his hands and wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged. It took Dean a few moments before he reciprocated it. The man pressed his nose into her hair and shook. His whole body seemed to vibrate from worry. She sensed it all, the anticipation, the fear, the anger, the worry, the betrayal, the hate. It poured off him like rings from where a rock was dropped in water. Lavender ran her hand up and down his spine and tried to shush him gently with a slow sway.

“I’ll get him, Dean. I promise. We’ll get him back.”

~~~  
The taste of bile was common now. Not that Draco had become sickly or anything. It was just the reflex his body developed with his line of work. One that was not so gently suggested by his now mentor and supervisor. In fact, Draco would argue that this reaction was in direct response to seeing Yaxley’s lumbering form outside his door now. Malfoy always considered the man to be the off-brand version of his father. A man with all the breeding and potential to be so much more than the greasy, dim leech he was. Months under his careful supervision showed Draco that he had, for once, been an excellent judge of character. No, he had a few other moments of seeing someone who would be good in his life. Most of them were dead now. Then again, one had been dead originally. But Yaxley functioned on such a basic level Draco marveled that he remembered how to breathe and have his heart beat at the same time. The wonders of automatic functions, perhaps.

He wanted to be a Healer. That was what Draco always wanted to be. It was a job that would constantly be a challenge. He would have to always think. But here, it was mind-numbing. It was a job that made Draco long for the heavy aired classrooms where Professor Binns continued on about history in a tone so hypnotic, half the class was asleep before he finished the third chapter. There was no thinking in this job, especially as a mentee. And when the mind was not forced to focus, it wandered. And thinking was dangerous for the boy. It was not so much what he could do that would cause the issues, but what he had done. And how he had been involved in what happened to the world.

Growing up, he had thought everything he was told was right. He thought his father was the perfect man to be. His ideals and Draco had worshiped him. He was strong, cool, popular, powerful, confident, and even if he was distant, he was caring toward Draco’s mother. So he emulated that. He did what Lucius did. He threw his weight around. He presented himself as the tough and insurmountably bold children. But it was difficult to be his father. Draco was very much his mother. He was sharp and witty. Far more clever and intelligent than his father actually was. It did not change his views until his Fifth Year. Everything was easy to laugh about and not take seriously until the real issue was in his face. He not only saw the Dark Lord, but he saw what real evil was. He also saw the punishment that came with the side his parents had been on.

He liked the power that came with working as Umbridge’s henchmen. He liked that it gave him some leniency. That mixed with being a Prefect made the boy feel unstoppable. But it twisted his gut to see the way young kids’ hands bled from the punishment Umbridge passed out. He would not speak out about it, but it was barbaric. It was something he realized about his aunt when he finally met her. The whole movement, the LeStranges, Dolohov, Yaxley… they were all brutal. And he hated how it clashed so much with what they claimed the better-than-thou mentality. And when his father’s arrest and failure to obtain the prophecy? He realized that the Purist movement was not a game. He saw the ramification of what was preached. It had become fanatical. He was faced with the facts: taking a life was no light topic. And after he left Hogwarts, he found himself with an arm outstretched and taking the Mark. It was not an honour like Pansy said it was and Draco knew it. This was punishment. To Lucius who had never wanted the Dark Lord to return because this would have been expected of Draco. And to Narcissa, who never took the mark and had more allegiance to her husband and child than to the cause.

He had been asked to kill as a child. He was not even old enough to apparate, but he was old enough to take a life. And it was traumatic. He knew that his heart felt as though it had ripped out of his chest. And he thought about it each time. He couldn’t talk to Pansy about it. Zabini and Nott both were jealous. Nott’s father refused to let him take the mark until he left Hogwarts, but the man had also not disappointed the Dark Lord. He had Crabbe and Goyle, who he trusted and cared for deeply. That was the issue. With everything he was being asked to do, it was not a lack of trust that stropped him from saying anything, but the understanding of plausible deniability. He hated himself for forcing Crabbe and Goyle into the uniforms of younger students just so he could use the Room of Requirements. He tried to keep them away from the dangers. But when the Death Eaters took over, it seemed convincing them to join the new Inquisitorial Squad was the safest bet. Keep them in with the people in charge while he was gone. He had done so well keeping them safe. Until he didn’t. It was his idea to chase after Harry. It was he who did not tell them to go away. And it was Draco who failed to get Crabbe out.

It was him who had not told Harry he was the one to disarm Dumbledore, meaning the wand was loyal to him. The only positive was Voldemort had just put the wand as a trophy in his manor, his family’s old home and the site of his first murders. He was not stupid enough to try and get it, but there was a powerful ally currently mounted on a bloody mantel over a fireplace. He was in the DMLE now at the demand of his new mentor, Yaxley, who held an almost obsessive hold over his life. He had lost everything. He lost his freedom. His family lost a lot of renown with the family, and he had lost his relationship of three years to the man’s poisonous hold. Draco looked up at him and narrowed his eyes.

“Sir, the paperwork has been finished for the day,” he replied in an overly-polite tone. It was less of an update and more of a hint that Yaxley was hovering. He did not like slow smirk that crossed the man’s lips.

“You did very well today, Draco.” There was always a hint of something creepy in the praise he gave. It always danced just pass the edge of honest and innocent. “What do you say to getting something quick to eat to review your progress with the department?”

“That sounds great,” he replied tightly. Draco felt his jaw clench after the forced smile. “Just let me send an owl home so my mother does not hold my spot at the table, and I would meet you in the Atrium.”

He kept the even face as Yaxley smirked and made his way to the lift. Draco sighed heavily and gave a full-body shake. He hated the crawling feeling the man gave him under the skin. The way he felt the eyes drift over his body as though he would not notice. He knew he needed to play the game. Let Yaxley get his rocks off on creeping and reap the benefits. He hated it. He knew it was dirty and lowly, but it was how he had to survive. But when he penned his notice, it was not to his “Beloved Mother,” but to simply, “Gregory.” It was a short notice about how he was getting dinner and having his review with his mentor and would be late that evening. He knew Goyle would understand the meaning and relay it to his mother. Or, at least he would relay what was appropriate for her to know. After everything that happened, Goyle had it out with his parents and his mother was more than happy to take in one of Draco’s friends. After he had lost everything, he at least gained something in Goyle moving in. After the owl flew off, he grabbed his cloak and headed to the Atrium.

He walked into the black marble archway and noticed a shock of red hair he so rarely saw these days with all but one other Weasley either dead or locked away. It was, as always, the hair was always accompanying his uncle. When he was younger, the sight of Ginny would have infuriated him. In some ways, it still did. He hated the fact that she had been proven correct in her attempted martyrdom. And now she was a powerful figure brought so low. She was being rehabilitated by Rabastan. It was a polite way of saying she was a slave. He called it how it was when not in the office. When his heels clicked against the granite, her sharp gaze glared over at him and flickered in recognition. He arched his eyebrows at her in a silent _Why are you here?_ Ginny’s frown deepened and her the only sign that her head moved at all was how her hair swayed slightly as she indicated her master. The look on her face clearly said he was talking and had yet to shut it. There was no smirk, but the corner of his mouth ticked upward slightly and he approached.

Seeing Weasley was one of his dirty secrets. He liked it. She was his age. When Rabastan and the other elite members were not around, she tore into him viciously. But there was the understanding of what he was going through that seeped in. Because during one of their many arguments in Rabastan’s new quarters, he told her everything. It ended in him crying with his face red and nose running. She did not lessen the anger, of course. That was part of her charm. She did, however, pull him into a hug and congratulated him on having a soul. Now, when they saw each other, it was a kindred feeling. Ginny cleared her throat subtly to get the two gentlemen’s attentions. They turned and Yaxley gave him that same predatory grin.

“Ah, yes, Draco. Yaxley said you’d be showing up shortly,” Rabastan rasped out. Draco arched his eyebrows.

“Are you joining us,” he asked with a lot of doubt in his voice. His eyes flicked over to Ginny.

“No, of course not.” Draco thought that was a shame, as he had no desire to do this alone. “We were just putting in a request for visitation to Azkaban for questioning. I’ll leave you be.”

Draco nodded and watched Ginny’s lips carefully. As usual, he caught a very subtle sentence falling off them. He had learned to lip read as a child, and was quite skilled with it. He was also lucky that for her poor upbringing, Ginevra had impeccable diction. What he caught was, _”No wine.”_ Her eyes then flickered subtly not to Yaxley exactly, but down below the older man’s belt. As he was not the most attractive male, Draco knew it was a warning and not her own desire. His head more of twitched downward than nodded as he acknowledged her message. She then turned sharply and walked a step behind Rabastan with her head held high.

“I will never understand why he puts the effort into socializing that thing,” Yaxley grumbled and fastened his cloak.

“Well, he has no friends,” Draco replied. “And his company is torture.”

“Do you think she is redeemable?”

“No.” Draco replied honestly. Ginny would never change her views. She was, however, clever enough to grab privilege and use it for good. “But if anything, the Weasleys have a great track record of providing spawn. If we are having dinner, I’d like not to lose my appetite.”

Yaxley flourished toward the door and they exited. Much of Diagon Alley had been fixed since the escape of the dragon. It was bustling again, though there was a heaviness. The joke shop was gone and replaced by a housing authority building. It was run by, oddly enough, a few members of the now legal werewolf packs. It amazed him that of all the people to not get lied to, it was them. Though, there was something powerful in having someone that dangerous on their side. He also knew they were the ones tracking people down and looking for possible rebellion. It was some surprise when the destination was actually the Leaky Cauldron. It did, however, give Draco an easy out if need be, as he had managed to at least moderately build a rapport with the staff. They could bail him out if need be.

Before they sat down, Yaxley ordered at the bar top. As Ginny warned, wine was brought. He eyed it, but turned it down as he was not feeling well and did not want to Floo home. There was a tightness to Yaxley’s jaw that made him uncomfortable, but he pushed it to the side as his file was brought out. They spoke of work and his progress. Before the night was through, he found Yaxley holding his wrist too gently for it to be professional. But Draco grinned and bared it as he did. He took the praise, colouring under it a few times, and smiled gracefully. His eyes flickered to the windows that were outside and noticed how it had grown dark. His eyes glanced back and found Yaxley leering hungrily. He swallowed and looked at the papers while planning his escape. He had promised to be home, and he had every intention of getting there this evening.

~~~  
“I don’t understand why you are hosting a blood traitor of all things, brother,” Rodolphus slurred as he motioned with his rocks glass.

They were at the new Lestrange manor. They had to be, Pansy did not join him elsewhere. While their relationship was no secret to the immediate family, Rabastan included, the rest of the world did not need to know their Minister was having an affair. One Bellatrix was more than happy to have arranged. And one that Pansy was more than happy to have arranged. She was lounging on a chaise as she watched the two brothers talk. Here at the manor was lovely. She was able to relax and enjoy what her life had given her. Rodolphus was a kind lover for a man who enjoyed torture and murder. He doted on her and gave her everything she wanted. It all stayed in her personal wing, of course, as she could not take it home. But here, she was the actual queen. And it served Bellatrix well. In fact, the woman seemed pleased that she was no longer required to play wife outside of public events. She could focus on her interrogations for the ministry. She ran Azkaban Prison. With Rodolphus and her actual husband having income to spare and no siblings to take her family money, Pansy had no need to work. She spent her time as she did in school, listening. Her old collection of friends had intelligently gotten themselves attached to men with status. It meant they all had a lot of information passed between them. 

Much like older times, she knew the host families used their charges as free labour. Some of it was even sexual. She also knew that there was a house of pleasure being run that a number of elites visited. And it had gotten an upgrade. Of course, no one would say who ran it or where it was, but everyone knew. She often wondered if that was where Marcus went when he came back from drinking with the team. Millicent had become involved with the international relations director and heard about the issues they were having with a few of their best allies, including some parts of Scandinavia and France. The Baltics, however, were proving to be the most supportive of what happened. In the Muggle Relations Department, which was newly formed in a way to slowly implement their governmental seize of the Muggle Ministry, Dear Theodore and Urquhart were helping organize their five-year plan. The only person she did not have eyes on was Goyle from their old group. She was not complaining, of course. He was sad and pathetic. She hoped he had somehow left the country without knowing about it. Though, with how gossipy the Ministry was, she was sure to have heard about it.

The clock chimed a solid eight times and Pansy sighed. Rodolphus and Rabastan paused and looked up at the clock. It was time for her to head back to her own house and to her other life. She hated returning when it was such a lovely evening. The brothers were getting along, and dinner had been wonderful. Her lover stood and pulled her to her feet gently and pulled her fully flush to his body and ran his hands down her arms. She smiled up at him and batted her lashes, just as he always enjoyed. He looked at her as though she was precious. It was something she wished she could feel everywhere. His eyes turned sad as he knew it was time for her to depart. Pansy held her breath and Rodolphus brought her hand to his lips and pressed it gently to the back.

“Until next time,” he told her. She smiled brightly.

She always left from the foyer. It felt right, as it was part of the whole departure moment. It was a shock to the system to leave such a luxurious and open location to appear home. She instantly put her rings back onto her finger and stepped inside. There, her husband stood. His face was red with rage as he stormed from the dinning room to the parlor and she froze. Marcus had grown and added on muscle as he had become a professional Quidditch player. He was now more intimidating than he had been in school, especially when he was drunk. It was why she paused in her movement. She had been on the receiving end of his aggression before. She knew in moments like this it was best to not provoke him. So she quietly walked to the bedroom and draw herself a bath in their suite. He must have heard her, for Marcus spun and she found herself looking at the Catapult’s third chaser, Marcus Flint, glaring her down.

“Where have you been,” he demanded. She could smell the sweetness of a liquor on his breath.

“With Tracey,” she replied. Tracey would cover for her. She was part of the family who knew.

“Until this late?”

“It’s _only_ eight. Hardly late at all.” Her sarcasm was starting to spill out.

“I wanted you home for when I got back from the team dinner.”

“I’m sorry,” she squeaked out. Pansy took a step back toward the stairs. “I will tell you next time I expect to be late.”

His grunt was not a promising sound. And he still towered over her. She longed for the feeling of being with Rod. She swallowed and looked up at him through her lashes. She was aiming for coy and a hint of seductive. This would go one of two ways. Either way, Pansy knew it was going to hurt. The first option was to get the brunt of her anger. The second was to entice him to the bedroom and let him get frustration out that way. She felt the way he gripped her shoulders with bruising strength. She hissed and winced in pain, though he would never acknowledge it. Her body was spun and shoved toward the stairs. It was clear what he was after that evening.

~~~  
Ginny was walking into her quarters after her bath. She was not surprised to find Rabastan sitting on her bed as if he owned it. Which. He did, so perhaps he was sitting on his bed because he owned it. She only arched her barely-there brow unimpressed and continued to use the towel to soak up the water from her hair. There was always something annoying about how he waltz in all the time. Though, she did know that was part of the fun for him. He had complete control. And if he wanted to play with her this way, he could. And he did. She did not even bother tightening her robe up and giving him the joy of her feeling exposed.

“How is our esteemed Minister?” Her voice was as icy as her stare as she passed by the man.

“Disappointed at the state of morale in his community and in his home life.”

“Really? The child-torturing psychopath is a terrible wife and the mass murderer is not inspiring his country? I swear, this is fucking. _Shocking._ ”

“Yes, well. You know what they say,” Rabastan replied. His eyes were heavy on her and she felt it through her skull. She hated it. “Is that the bets you have tonight?”

“Sorry to leave you as unsatisfied as all your lovers,” she snipped back and dropped her robes to pull on her sleep clothes. “You have two perfectly good hands or an endless supply of money to waste on the whore house if you need to get off.”

She knew that was not entirely true. He could take her here and she would have a hard time fighting him off. She had no wand. It had been snapped in front of her. But since that one time in a Saturday detention, Rabastan had not touched her. Some days she wished she would so she had more fuel to fire her anger. It was exhausting being angry on her own.

“Shame. Here I was hoping for a good time.” Rabastan sighed. “Do you think Pansy is being abused?”

Ginny spun in shock before she finished pulling her pants up. She did it so suddenly that she almost fell over.

“Why the bloody hell do you care. Actually playing good guy for once?” She finished pulling up her pants and then sleeping bottoms

“It must shock you to think I care about another person.”

“I’m pretty sure I just said that.”

“Her happiness keeps my brother from murdering people-”

“Oh, that stops you now?”

“Which keeps the country from rioting and overthrowing the government.”

“Such a terrible fate for us to suffer.”

“I could send you to Azkaban.”

“Please. It’d be a fucking dream compared to this.”

“Can you answer the fucking question, Red?” Ginny growled and pulled on her shirt.

“Yes. I think she is. Flint is a cunt.” Rabastan snorted. “What, I can use that word. In fact I know she is. She told Tracey.”

Rabastan nodded and stood from the bed. Her eyes followed him with a dark glare. He was still the smaller brother, though he looked better with three years out of Azkaban than the first time she saw him. He was still scum and made her want to gag, but he at least looked less like a ghost and more like a person. His gaunt features looked back before he left silently. She dropped to the bed, hating how she had one of these while her siblings were in stone cells on an island.

~~~  
Lavender stretched her body out on the bed below her. Arms stretched upward and ankles crossed and pointed. She presented her body with the teal lace almost glowing against her dark skin. Her eyes were locked on the thickly built, hairy man whose blue eyes were locked on her and blown with his lust. She grinned slowly and tilted her neck up just enough to break his already shaky resolve. Fenrir was over her in a second with his limbs caging her. She knew a year ago today was when he had been poised like this the first time and had almost taken her life. She was also not a fool in thinking he did not enjoy that fact. She was still slightly afraid. She knew that her time in this position was possibly only a few seasons long. And she was constantly aiming to get him interested in prolonging it. She had her rescue to run, after all. He panted into her neck and ground down against her hip.

“I hate when you come home smelling like them,” he growled.

“Part of the job, my love,” she purred back. “I will be bringing in two more this week, by the way. Once set up, they would bring in a solid 50 galleons a night when working.”

“Take some money from Preston to pay off the judges for them.” He gave a snarl as his teeth played at her throat and pushed his hips harder against her. “We have a meeting with South tomorrow over Ireland.”

“Perhaps you should leave your mark for them.” Lavender barely got the words out when the sharp pain flared in her skin again. She would have to see their pack Healer to get fixed up in the morning, but for now she left the blood trickling down her neck satisfy one of Fenrir’s primal urges. His nails dug deep into her skin.


	2. A Compromise of Character

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavender Brown knew when she joined Fenrir and his pack officially, she would be expected to give up much of the morals she lived by before. She would stand by the side of Fenrir Greyback, the murderer and torturer who had mauled her a year before to survive, all the while proving herself worth not killing off. Through her new position, she has gained an understanding of the two packs of the British Isles and what it means to give up your own sense of self for the greater good. But to keep that greater good, the witch now sees she has a lot more to give up still to stay on top.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These updates will be very slow in nature, and I apologize for that <3

The meeting between the North and South Packs was held, neutrally, in London. In the confines of an old pub once ran exclusively by Preston’s family, it was now both a dive still heavily used by werewolves and other “beings” more than the witches and wizards of the United Kingdom. The owner and bartender, Lena, was an unaligned wolf from Spain who had moved there after being attacked. She had once been a prospect for Fenrir to take as a mate when he started to gain a better foothold in the region. She had not only pushed off the man’s rather forward and aggressive courtship but survived. Lena was also crafty enough to provide him with something he needed. The cost had been her protection from others without swearing her allegiance to him directly. When the South Pack formed under another powerful werewolf who frequented the bar, Lena used her lack of a side to offer both a meeting ground. She had been sworn into protection from any discrimination for not being registers with an affiliation. In return, the two packs had a place to meet that did not encroach on territory.

When Lavender first met Lena, it had been a tense moment. Lena was a woman of average height and frame. Yet, she was powerfully built from years of hard work on her own. She was fiercely independent—almost viciously so—and untrusting. Her nose had flared as she took in Lavender’s scent and noted she was distinctly human and not a wolf. She and Fenrir took to grunts and low rumbles that meant nothing to her, but Lavender had heard Fenrir use it previously. It was pack speaking. Lena was close enough to the man to understand it, and that had caused a sense of panic at first. If anyone could dethrone her from the life of comfort she now held, it was most likely Lena. She held no pack ranking or leadership of her own, but the Spanish wolf was more powerful than even Valeska, who ran the South Pack. And she was striking. Lavender grasped that a turned wolf aged slowly, but Lena was the type to look gorgeous even into old age. She had sharp, brown eyes and a round thin nose, button lips, and rounded cheekbones and chin. The woman was distinctly Iberian, and the influences of other Mediterranean and Near East lineage was present in her olive skin and coarse but shiny black hair.

Now, however, Lena was more of Lavender’s only ally outside of Preston. They were both outsiders. Lena was unaffiliated, and Lavender was not turned. Both were independent women of power who, at some measure, held at least one upper hand on Fenrir. Their plans were bigger than his and more broadly stretched. And they were not willing to bow to his whims when their ideals did not match. As she had told Dean the morning before, even the dominant like to be controlled.

Lena had helped Lavender in her pursuits of turning the House into something less untoward and more professional. She had explained customer service and relations, how to run a business, and even the intricacies of booking and accommodations. They were not business partners, and surely not friends, but Lena was someone in her corner. And that was what Lavender needed. Outside of the House she ran, this was the one place Fenrir did not worry about Lavender visiting alone. She did not need to be marked and claimed before every visit, and she was not immediately inspected upon return. Lena let the women sit in the far back booth where the man used to sit and kept curious people at bay. Today, however, was not a social visit. And today, Fenrir was by her side.

Lavender saw the way Lena inhaled and eyed the pair with both humor and exasperation. Lavender knew why. It was a daily thing for Fenrir to mark her in some way. Normally it was just by their sharing a bed naked and him pinning her in the morning to rub his scent onto her. It was for them and any wolf to smell that she was connected to someone. The marks along her neck were always visible, but that was the possessive side meant for any male who was not enhanced by some other blood—they could clearly see she had been claimed. But meeting with the South Pack, or any situation where Lavender would be required to interact with males who could hold an interest in her in a more intimate light, such as now, was one that smelled thick and heavy of sex. Normally, Fenrir’s animalistic desire to breed with her took over, as it ad the night before. This morning, he had pulled out to smear himself into the junction of her jaw and neck. He did the same with her scent when they had begun. Even after a shower, the message would linger for at least a day.

The desired effect was reached when Valeska leaned in to greet them both with a warm puff of breath against their cheeks. She flinched slightly and backed off with her eyes hardened and jaw set. Fenrir, for his part, remained impassive, as he waited for her with false patience to welcome Lavender into the meeting in the same manner. He knew, much like the witch did, that the women detested her. In a rare moment of discussing the state of affairs between the packs, Fenrir informed her that Valeska’s grand vision was to unite the two packs under their joined leadership. It had been assumed on her part that he would be open to the idea of a larger group working as one. He had listed off, according to Fenrir and later Preston, a number of logistical issues with that. These reasons ranged from businesses and duties to the fact that much of his pack were Irish or Scottish and detested the idea of being ruled by yet another English leader. Lavender knew, of course, that Fenrir simply did not share and did not bow to someone else now that he had power.

Valeska’s issue with Lavender was plain: she was a witch and she was a criminal he had beat the system into allowing to roam free. Lena added that she had eyes on the position beside him, as well. Having a trained witch armed with a wand as Fenrir’s claimed mate gave the pack a bit of clout in the eyes of the new regime. While a traitor, once Fenrir announced her rehabilitated, Lavender would be seen as not just a pureblood, but someone who was part of the Sacred 26. She had asked Fenrir if that was why she had been targeted. His chilling reply was _”I had intentions for you long before I claimed you, not just before I knew._ There was some comfort in that. He had acknowledged after that it was of course, an added bonus.

“We should get started,” Valeska announced after stepping back from a short puff against Lavender. “Fenrir, if you would follow me to the meeting room.”

She started up the stares and Fenrir let a low rumble emanate from his chest. Lavender did not reach for him, as they were in public, but did tilt her chin and neck enough to flash her bite before heading up the stairs. The mask of a woman in charge replaced the joyful one of a 19-year-old she had worn with Dean the day before. Below, she heard a cold chuckle from Lena by the bar and the drag of a stool where Preston no doubt sat.

“No challenging the other pack a year into this,” Lena’s rich voice warned. “You’ll lose everything before the ink on these treaties dry.”

Lavender filed that away as something to bring up later. She stepped into the second-floor room which was little more than a walled off loft with silencing charms on the walls and door. There, Valeska stood leaning over the conference table with her finger splayed out and eyes boring into Lavender’s. She and Fenrir could not have been more different in looks, even now. Fenrir had cleaned up finally, but he was still a monstrous man in size. He was well over six feet tall with muscles that were hidden beneath his penchant for dark clothing such as leather, denim, and thankfully cotton blends rather than wool. He was pale with get black hair and icy blue eyes; his beauty was marred by the scarring that littered his body and the ruthless cold that he exuded. Valeska was prim and civilized Her hair was a honey blonde with darker roots. She was pale with hazel eyes, rounded features that looked gentle and delicate. Her look was manicured in a way that was professional but feminine. Of course, it was a way to lure those in power into underestimating the woman. At the end of the day, she was still stronger than a normal man and had been a ruthless killer. She had taken the pack from her former lover. He had intended on dumping her to the side for another now that the registration was not a negative thing. The man reportedly signed over the pack to her before leaving the country. Something the international relations team had no records of.

“I asked Fenrir to join me,” her voice had lost the polished cordiality it held downstairs. “This is a meeting between the Alphas.”

Lavender said nothing. She merely arched her eyebrow and took her seat. It was for meetings such as this that Fenrir had allowed her to indulge in keeping up her appearance. Months ago, when she first moved to Scotland, her attempted power move would not have held much water. She was thin and sickly with her natural hair untamed in a bad way. Now, she looked equally as well-placed in the board room as Valeska did. She could feel the woman’s eyes bore into her harshly as she tried to push her away. She could feel the threat rolling off her in waves. It was something Fenrir did often, and she would have been unsettled if not for that or the warm hand that curled around the nape of her neck. She had smelled him approaching.

“I believe we are both here. As Miss Brown manages twice your monthly allotment to the government, I say she has more right to be in this meeting than you.” Ice would not have melted in Fenrir’s mouth with those words. And Lavender let the cocky smirk pull one side of her lips upward.

“We are discussing the placement of Welsh wolves,” Valeska stated. “If this was a taxation meeting, her input would be of value.”

“Welsh,” Fenrir repeated. His voice was wicked. His fingers unfurled from her neck and instead ran along her jawline. Both had their eyes still locked on Valeska. “My darling, where was it you were born?”

“Swansea,” Lavender replied simply.

“Now, as I am from Portree and you are from Manchester, I do believe Lavender here is the one who can speak best on behalf of the Welsh.”

“Welsh _wolves,_ ” Valeska snarled. Her lip curling and the gravel in her voice was all that gave away her anger in the moment.

“In due time. However, I don’t believe you have any say in who I run my pack with. Now, Lavender, what say you about where to place the Welsh.”

“Let them decide who to register with,” Lavender replied easily. She knew most would chose the North Pack out of a desire to identify anything but English again. It seemed so did Valeska.

“And if they push for a third Pack,” she asked. Her eyes were still trained on Fenrir. When the man was silent, Valeska arched her eyebrow impatiently, but the man kept tracing along Lavender’s jaw. He had decided it was her show to run this day.

“I don’t see the issue,” Lavender replied with mock politeness. “If you are looking for peaceful relations, shouldn’t their wishes outweigh your gain? Peacefully requesting a third pack would split logistics and prevent internal disputes that could tear apart the pack.” Her mind was looking back at the hushed conversations in the Room of Requirements when Halfblood students were being questioned. The argument of hide them and keep recruiting or stop all progress and wait for news from Potterwatch on what was happening to the Halfbloods had caused a few of the original members to leave the DA for a while. If not for Ginny and Neville literally dragging them back in, there was a chance the team would have been doomed, as it was not just Michael Corner but Anthony Goldstein—the head boy.

“Are you suggesting we allow a vote?” Her voice seemed to balk at the idea. “What would the achieve.”

“Higher registration numbers and a chance to give the care and protection the unregistered wolves are lacking right now. Access to Wolfsbane for those in densely populated areas who cannot join the runs, healthcare, and a push for research into what is actually better for a werewolf compared to a human.” Lavender felt the finger now trail to the base of her jaw behind her ear and down her neck along the artery. Fenrir approved of her points, even if they were not his real desires.

“And what investment do you have in the health and welfare of werewolves,” Valeska snapped finally.

“Eighty-seven minor investments, two moderate investments, and one that is significant. I believe, in total, that is roughly twenty more than you have. Including yourself.”

 

It was a further thirty minutes of debate before they departed the room. Fenrir and Lavender lingered as Valeska’s heels clicked down the stairs and the crack of her aparating away echoed. They both could smell her absence now, so Lavender stood and faced Fenrir with her eyes arched. Her annoyance was met with dimly hid entertainment.

“I do hope you are satisfied with yourself. Next time you decide to throw me to the wolves, so to speak, do at least warn me of the meat you are strapping to my person,” Lavender snapped. She felt the rolling anger begin and get cut off as Fenrir grounded himself and curbed that aggression.

“She will not take you seriously unless you run a few meetings, my dear. Which you did,” he paused for a moment. His finger trailed around the curve of her jaw again and his grin pulled wickedly, “magnificently.”

“And of you turning me, I thought that was not your plan.” Her eyes arched higher and head tipped down. She got another grin in reply.

“She does not need to know that. There are two benefits to having a human at my side than a wolf. Mostly, you cannot usurp the position.” Lavender did not flinch. She knew this was the reason a few who had tried to become his mate were eliminated before they even stood a chance.

“The second reason?”

“Well,” he spoke slowly again with his blue eyes laced with heat. His hand pressed warm against her stomach. “Female wolves cannot have children.”

~~~~~~~  
“Did you want to explain why I just paid the Wizengamot enough to purchase two standard two bed flats in greater Liverpool for six months,” Preston asked.

It had been three days since the meeting with Valeska, and Lavender had spent much of it making up two new rooms for their new arrivals. One was on Dean’s floor and near his wing. Up until this moment, his wing had been isolated. Part of this was the fact that Dean was a very sought-after companion. The other was the hope of finding Seamus. If she could do that, Dean would at least have his best mate by him again. They had been separated since before their Seventh Year, and she knew the man was worried. _She_ was worried, as well, but she could not let that show. While some of the workers and definitely Preston were aware of the reasons for the establishment, the courts could not have cause for concern.

She turned from where she had been changing the colors of the bathroom walls to a seafoam to look at the wolf. He was a broadly built man—more so than even Fenrir. In many ways, he was built like McLaggen had been, only he had dark skin and eyes that almost looked black. He looked like a bruiser. Powerful muscle and an empty stare. But Preston was highly intelligent. Almost annoyingly so. He was the bookkeeper of the Pack as well as Fenrir’s Beta. He was not originally from the British Isles but made his way to England from South Africa. He had been an international ambassador fresh from school until he had a run-in with a werewolf. Fenrir had found him when he was still young, barely kicked out of Hogwarts. Though he had almost a decade on Fenrir, the man was youthful in his appearance. Annoyingly so, in fact.

Lavender met his question with an even gaze.

“I don’t see the issue, that money will be back in our hands by the end of next weekend,” she told him. Most of the Wizengamot were regular customers, after all. “Besides, Liverpool is on the decline right now. It’s all about Dover again.”

“Lavender, you know I like you,” Preston began.

“What a relief. I thought the popularity contest was over when my school was attacked and blown up,” she replied easily and turned back to fixing the wall. Preston stopped for a moment. She felt the wave of sadness come off him.

“Who is it that you found,” Preston asked. His voice had lost the annoyance from before. She sighed and put the wand down on the sink.

“The Snatchers picked him up. Seamus Finnegan. He was in my year and house.” Preston shut the door and leaned against it. He was one of the few scents that did not set off Fenrir, so the man knew he was allowed to do this. Lavender lost her fear in him a week in when he had been the one to explain the origin of everything the pack had been through. “He’s a Halfblood. He’s pretty, so don’t worry about him not making money, but he was one of my best mates. Brilliant, witty, charming as all bloody Hell. He was a great bloke. His best mate is Dean. They have not seen each other since Dean went into hiding. And when we found him, I made the promise that if I could find Seamus, I’d bring him here, too.”

“And when Fenrir finds out you’re collecting people to protect them and not just running a business?” Now Preston seemed worried. The man did genuinely like Lavender. She underestimated herself in school. She never pushed to be better. She gossiped and talked behind people’s back a lot. But she was clever and quick on her feet. Between the man before her and Lena, Lavender had grown a lot.

“Is that any different from what the early pack did?” Now she asked with genuine curiosity. Fenrir had latched to Preston because they were two young werewolves with nowhere to turn. Fenrir learned to think on his feet and was trained by Preston in as much magic as he could show. They pulled more people in and grew. Set up a safety net for those involved. While ruthless, a murderer, and someone who blackmailed and slandered many of the witches and wizards of England, Fenrir also had set up an intricate web to protect the werewolves who came to him for help. A sanctuary built on skeletons.

“If this endangers the rest, he will kill you,” Preston warned. Lavender nodded solemnly. “Is it worth it?”

“I did not join the DA because it was the cool thing to do,” she snapped. Preston raised his hands up and palms out. “There is nothing I can do to help other than this. I have no standing, no power outside of the pack, and no connections. But a dozen is better than nothing. And I’ll die with these sins happily.”

“You’re too good of a person for him,” he mused.

“He is interested in the efficiency of my young body, not the morality of my choices,” she reminded him. He hummed in a way that both showed he knew what she meant and was not touching it with a seven-meter pole. “He informed me following the meeting with Her that his intentions are to eventually have a successor born.”

“Let’s hope the child takes after you in more ways that just your looks, then,” Preston replied simply. Lavender smirked and shook her head. “You still have a month to pay back the initial debt, you know, that right?”

“Dean has Burke and Hastings this week,” she informed him. Preston whistled. “And Demelza has Borgin, and Victoria has Flint again. I’ll be more than set by Sunday.”

“The real threat is you striking out with Lena. Taking the business with you,” Preston replied as he opened the door. “I’d encourage you to be honest with the Alpha. You may not realize it, but you’re building a pack here. You agree to that child, he may agree to taking your side project under his protection as well.”

Lavender thought about that for a moment. Preston made his way down the hall and to the stairs in her silence. She had been doing this on her own, thinking her partner would not back her in this. He had let her run a meeting alone with him only as a physical backup. It was now her job to help work with the Registration Committee to set up a survey with Welsh and Cornish wolves to see the opinion of their allegiance. She was now, effectively, running Pack business. This side project she had been working on could endanger that if the wrong people found out. And if Fenrir discovered it from another source, there would be punishment. And it would be indirect—he’d go for those she had safe in her estate. She sighed heavily again and sat on the closed toilet seat.

~~~~~~

She found herself caged in his limbs again. It was the same every evening when they both returned from their day of working. Stripped to their knickers and laid out on his bed. It amused her how decadent the bed truly was. It was large, soft, and covered in plush pillows, soft sheets, and thick blankets. It was the elegance and luxury she knew he had lacked for his whole life. She also found it strange his color scheme. It was an odd thing to note. But after so long of living in her off-white studio space with a hodgepodge of belongings, a room specifically put together was significant. It was steely blues and grays with no mirrors. The lights were not sconces like the rest of the house hand but standing floor lamps and one on each end table. She had also been shocked to see books and a set of reading glasses. They were youth books, yes, aimed for someone who was maybe a Fourth Year. She had learned this was a note of pride for Fenrir, who had been barely above illiterate for most his life. He read the novels at night and the papers by day. Articles that were important were stored in his roll-away desk. One she recently discovered she had access to.

His beard scratched lightly along her neck as he rubbed his face against her. One hand propped him above her and the other skated up her rib cage. One of her legs was wrapped around his waist and the other locked around his knee and calf. When he sniffed behind her ear, Lavender dug her nails into his back as encouragement. It was a strangely intimate thing they did. Fenrir was not a kisser, but this was how he always started to work her up. Closer to the moon, he skipped foreplay and she was rarely out of his sight. His nose dragged from her collarbone to behind her ear.

“What is on your mind, my dear,” he asked. His voice was rough and thick already. But he could smell the trepidation in her body.

“It is the brothel,” she told him. He made a noise that was similar to a dog’s curious chirp, so she continued. “And the people I have been collecting.”

“Are they not worth it,” he asked. The lust was fading, now.

“They are,” she informed him. Her hand dragged along the knotted and gnarled scarring on his back—the bite that gave him his name. “But it is not just because of their profits.”

“The Thomas boy,” he replied. There was a fire there, now, and Lavender sharply turned her head to nudge his face. She only spoke when he met her gaze.

“That is not how I mean,” she told him sharply. “But yes, he and a few others. I have collected and have been willing to pay extra for because of who they are.”

His nose flared. “Gryffindors,” he asked. She nodded.

“Most have been my mates in school. It is this or prison. Or worse.” Her eyes stayed locked on his.

As the flurry of sensations rolled from him, she tried to keep the fear low. He snarled and crawled down her body. Lavender paused for a moment and dropped heavily back against the pillows. There was no shock or reaction as his breath puffed along her hip bones and inner thighs. He was checking for the scent of someone else there. Rather that resist, Lavender rolled her eyes, rubbed her forehead in annoyance, and let him inspect her. She still smelled overwhelmingly of him, which he noted and crawled back up and pressed into her fully. His mouth latched onto the mark he had left a few nights ago, which was still tender, and sucked at it hard. Lavender’s body jolted in response and a strangled gasp caught in her throat. He had latched on, worrying the scar tissue with his sharpened canines. One hand snaked under her body and pulled her flush to his chest while he other was bent and propping them both up.

“Fenrir,” she finally got out. He snarled angrily in response but did not bite down. She would take the small victories where she found them. “I am not looking to do anything other than protect my friends.” His nails dug into her back and she winced but refused to gasp. “I am giving myself to you in all ways. Would you not permit me this?”

“In what ways,” Fenrir growled. His teeth were now pressed against her jugular, but Lavender kept her breathing even.

“You heir. Permission to deem me rehabilitated. Whatever you ask, just let me protect them.”

His heavy panting was all that broke the following silence. For a moment, Lavender forced all negative possibilities from her mind as she waited. Then, slowly she felt his hips roll. Fenrir tucked his knees below her thighs to lift her lower body enough for leverage. His teeth scraped again along her throat and fingers grasped tight to her shoulder blade.

“You betray me. And I’ll make you kill them all.”

“I know.”

She had grown used to the pain of his teeth digging deep into her flesh. It had become normal before moving in, but now it was nearly a nightly occurrence. She had learn to stop the desire to struggle away from him now. Instead she pushed her hips down against him and let her nails scratch at his flesh as well. She had learned what he liked best was when she did not fear him now. Fenrir dropped his weight onto her, and his hands pulled at her clothing. The rip of lace told her yet another pair would be tossed out in the morning. Lavender used her hands to push his pants down as far as she could then switched to her feet to drag them the rest of the way down.

His reaction was almost immediate. once he felt skin on skin, he released his hold on her neck and rumbled low in his chest. One of his hands pushed between her legs and Lavender felt the sudden pressure of two fingers pressing in. Fenrir was not small in anyway, and it had taken him a few months to decide preparation was even worth the effort at all. Still, it was utilitarian in method. His goal was not to work her up for her enjoyment and pleasure. She knew this. It was rough, yet he had mastered working her open at a speed he needed and a method she enjoyed. A third finger was added into her folds. Fenrir continued to growl as he rubbed himself impatiently against her thigh. When Lavender did not feel the same stretching sting she hard, the woman made a soft affirmative noise. Fenrir removed his fingers and immediately replaced them with his erection. His growl was now more of a deep, pleased rumble, and he nosed at the junction of her jaw.

Lavender took a few, deep breaths and rolled her hips upward. Fenrir adjusted himself above her, bracketing her body with his forearms. His forehead rested on hers and he looked down at her with an intensity that bordered on glaring. He was quiet, only grunting softly and his jaw clenching with each thrust. His hands held her head still, so she had to watch back. She knew Fenrir enjoyed watching her reactions.

Her legs wrapped around his waist and hands gripped the back of his neck and shoulder. Fenrir rumbled deep in his chest again and ground up into her deeper. A part of Lavender registered that this was what Fenrir needed. A sense of dependency from him that she only felt during sex. His primal drive. His need to feel her pressed helplessly against him as he drove into her with blinding force. It was what Lavender slowly grew to get turned on by. He was not a lover in any sense of the word, but he had shifted from treating her like a tool to get off to acting as though he truly desired to mate with her.

She whimpered but refrained from closing her eyes. The blue of his eyes were nothing more than rings around his iris as his face pinched in concentration. She knew he was close when his pace faltered. Fenrir released the hold on her head and pulled the woman against him. Their faces were buried in the others’ necks. The man shifted his angle one more time, and Lavender cried out loudly. He thrusted repeatedly, harder each time, until she clenched around him and felt her climax wash over her. Fenrir followed immediately after and pushed in fully. His feet and knees pressed into the mattress for leverage to drive deeper as he lifted Lavender’s hips higher.

She cleaned the mess on the sheets only. He enjoyed smelling their mixed scents, and Lavender was not about to push her luck now. Unsurprisingly, Fenrir did not cuddle or press against her bodily. He had his portion of the bed and she had hers. Their sharing was not so much romantic as another subtle way Fenrir showed his dominance over her. Her place was in his bed, so she could not bring other home. Still, after a year in a neighborhood plagued by murder, battery, assault, and breaking and entering incidents, the witch felt comfortable there. Safer.

She dropped onto the mattress and pulled the blankets over her. There was much to be done over the next few days to get the house ready for the weekend and the two new residents. All other Pack business would fill in her free time. Lavender closed her eyes when she felt a pressure on her stomach. A broad hand, fingers splayed out possessively. She opened one eye curiously to find Fenrir watching her. The other eye opened to get a better look at him in the moonlight. He was studying her back with the same intensity. His nose flared and hand stayed warm against her.

“Give me the list of those missing still,” he told her.

She did not thank him. Thanks was weakness, after all. She merely nodded and placed her hand over his on her stomach for a moment, then closed her eyes and let the limb drop. He rolled over a minute later and silence fell in the room. She had signed her future away long before this deal, but now her fate was sealed as well. But imagining as many of her friends as possible safe, healthy, and cared for made giving up her freedom. As terrible as it was to think, it was better to be in this bed with a murderer and torturer than outside of it.


	3. The Stormfront

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco has what was meant to be a Saturday to himself, only to find what little footing he had ripped from under him and faced with an old challenge: picking a side to a war that was supposed to be over.

The morning sun started to come through the blinds. It was the weekend, so the Malfoy Manor, or what remained as such, was quiet. The guest house became the residence for the remaining Malfoys. Narcissa keeping to the ground floor and Draco to the first. The main estate was now the residence of the Dark Lord. What was once the marital room of Lucius and Narcissa played host to Voldemort himself. Draco’s childhood room, as well as a number of others, was transformed into the transient dwellings for those loyal to the cause from other countries. His office was the drawing room Narcissa kept for her own activities. The grounds no longer were seen to as they had been before and much under the new masters of the land. 

His life had lost all control, all prominence, and all safety. Narcissa and Gregory assisted in watching over the estate while he worked under Yaxley in the DMLE. Monday through Friday, Draco found it painful and difficult to get out of bed. It was torture in a way he thought only possible through dark magic to face his new life and his mentor. The way Yaxley watched him, the way he leered hungrily. How Draco now worked to destroy what had been a strong and growing government. He sanctioned snatchers and filed all the paperwork that wrongfully imprisoned those who he once hated or made fun of brutally. Those he had thought lesser than them. But he knew it was just the opposite at the best of days. They fought and pushed for what they thought was right while he did what his father did to stay safe. To look cool and be protected. He had no father to hide behind now.

Draco stirred in his spot and smiled at the warmth of a broad hand on his backs with fingers splayed out on his bare skin. Perhaps the only good thing about his life now was found in a place he had never looked. He had never thought of, of course. There was so little to enjoy, but this Draco held onto tightly.

A year ago, Gregory had shown up at the manor looking distraught and ready to flee at the first sudden movement. His mother had answered the door and immediately shuffled the young man in. She had tea prepared and called for Draco, who had been at Nott’s aiding in his own marital arrangement. He had left his home after a row with his father—one that ended with the senior Goyle threatening his life. Gregory had taken the loss of Crabbe possibly worse than Draco. He was lost, and Narcissa insisted he moved in. Draco knew his mother desired a diversion and helped Gregory would be just that. He moved into the first floor of the guest house with Draco when they were unseated, but down the hall.

Until Draco began to work under Yaxley, they spent almost every waking hour with each other. There was not much conversation. Draco felt he had nothing worth saying to Gregory. A boy he had used to his advantage and never thanked for his tireless loyalty. A boy he lost a man closer to him than to Draco at the fault of Draco himself. A boy who came to the reason for so much of his pain for assistance and comfort. And the young man had no way to process or the words to say. The thanks fell short. Appreciation was so hollow now that their desired world was not just achieved but nothing they had ever wanted. Nothing Lucius ever wanted for his son.

After silence came concern. It was slow and thoughtful; Gregory had not been a fan of Yaxley for as long as Draco had hated the older man—youth. He could tell Draco’s immense discomfort in the man’s constant company and would often pressure his friend into talking about the day. He wanted to hear what had happened as if there was something that could be done. And soon, much like a wound lanced of the festering pus, Draco let the abscess drain. Dinner conversations became chats in his room late at night while the candlelight burned low. They spoke in hushed tones about what Draco had to do, and the people they knew being punished. Draco learned of how the people staying in his home treated his mother and best friend. And they shared that pain.

Gregory would often mention his hatred of Draco doing more work for the Death Eaters. His trips out of the country were always short and were met with annoyance. At first it was just not having company. It became his mother needing her son around to make her feel comfortable. But six month ago, it all changed. It became about Gregory’s fear of losing Draco as well. It was a declaration that often rang so loudly in Draco’s ears at his worst of times to get through. The plea to not leave him again—that he meant too much to lose.

They did not cuddle. This hand on his back was the most touching they did in bed throughout the night. Draco rolled to look at Gregory sleeping. His face was mashed into the pillow with his mouth open slightly and shaggier brown hair spread across the material. He had lost much of his weight in the last year, though not through the healthiest means. Draco had watched his mate waste away before him. The lack of appetite and avoiding group meals to flee the death eaters ate away at the baby fat which had made Gregory the hefty, overweight boy he had been. The young man beside him in bed was not by any means the fit Adonis those in Quidditch were, but he was an average size. His light skin speckled with moles and patches of thin hair. One arm tucked under the pillow and his head, the other stretched across the distance to lay on Draco’s back. A gentle, possessive touch that let the blond wizard feel.

He reached out in the morning sunlight and gently pressed his finger to the skin under Gregory’s eyes. Slowly, the man’s breathing changed from sleep to consciousness. His brown eyes blinked, confused, at Draco before he stretched and let out a low groan. Draco smirked as he shifted deeper into the sheets as Gregory’s eyes cleared from tired bleariness to vague alertness. He hummed in question as to what he was woken up, which got a soft smirk.

“We promised mother we would go to Diagon Alley today,” Draco remined Gregory. His smile grew as the other man groaned and rolled over, so his face was burrowed into the pillow. “I know for a fact Nott and Zabini are not free this day, if that helps.”

“Why did we agree to do this,” Gregory’s voice was muffled in the pillow. It made Draco smirk grow.

“Mother asked us, and you love her.” Gregory mumbled something. “If we leave early enough, not a soul will see us in the main stead and hold us up.”

When Gregory did not move, Draco did. He crawled to Gregory’s prone position and pressed himself chest to back against him. He shamelessly reveled in the feeling of how much larger the other man was. Draco was long and rangy. He had always been smaller than the other two, but it was never more apparent when stretched out over the other in their knickers. Draco tucked his face into the neck of the larger man and pressed his lips to the skin beneath them. When Gregory remained unresponsive, Draco did it again. This time, Gregory wriggled a bit.

“Nothing you are doing says I should leave this bed,” Gregory complained. He arched into the next kiss.

“The sooner we leave and handle these errands, the faster we can return to our solitude here,” Draco reasoned.

He sat back on his heels and let his fingers drag lightly over Gregory’s bare skin before he pulled away fully. The man immediately missed the warmth of his partner’s body as Draco shifted to the edge of the bed and stood. Gregory turned and eyed him shamelessly in him skivvies before sighing heavily and rolling himself to stand. Once they left the room, the two young men would be forced to pretend that Gregory still stayed in his own room down the hall. It was still where he kept his clothing for appearance, after all, but the last time they slept alone was their fight two months before. After a prolonged moment of Gregory watching, Draco arched his eyebrows and walked through their door and into the hall.

The guest quarters were nothing a modest home would be ashamed of having as their own. The outside was the same gray stone as the main house and the interior a rich, darker wood with large windows to let in the light. The floor had a green and silver rug that was older than any surviving member of the house by double at least and cabinets along the opposite wall hosting heirlooms and photographs recused from the manor before it became a glorified boarding house. The curtains were still drawn, but they not black-out so the early morning light filtered through the light slate blue window treatments. It was the light reflecting off the glass panes that brightened up the walkway he traveled down to the bathroom.

Below, he could hear his mother beginning her own day. Draco wondered what she even was able to accomplish without the normal distractions to busy her. She had been in mourning since Lucius died, after all. A part of Draco wanted to put his name down for the acquisition of a Muggleborn child for rehabilitation just to give his mother a companion and a child a caretaker who would focus on the care aspect of the job. And as often as he pondered that, he also dismissed it with anger. No amount of good and compassion Narcissa would offer could outweigh the damages of residing so close to Voldemort and his closest companions. They would not be entrusted with someone at this point, and it was too high of a risk for any child to be safe. His mind filled with the memories of his own childhood and the reasoning and logic fed to him so carefully by Yaxley, Dolohov, his father and others to shape his mind into what it was before. And how it led to faces distorted in pain dealt by his own wand. The son his father dreamed of living the life Lucius hoped he’d never have to.

A hand on the small of his back shocked Draco from his thoughts. He had stopped at the bathroom sink and was staring into the mirror with a haunted, pale expression. In the reflection, his eyes met Gregory’s. The brown gaze was riddled with concern and pain. Only then did Draco realize he had tears in his eyes and fists clamped tight enough to cause half-moon impressions on his palm. His mind had gone elsewhere—traveled back down roads he thought were blocked off. Greg just spun him and pressed his lips to Draco’s forehead. The exhaled into the others’ spaces and paused for a moment. Draco focused on the hand pressed warm to his neck and the other on his waist. His hands relaxed just long enough to fist into the material of Gregory’s undershirt.

How he hated leaving his world of isolation and refuge. And how he hated seeing a nightmare of his own doing before him when the door opened.

 

Diagon Alley was as much of a shock to the eyes as living in the guesthouse had been at first. Long gone were the days of shouting salesmen in the streets, bustling and roving packs of witches and wizards on shopping trips with each other in the early weekend mornings. The smell of fresh food and beverages still permeated the air like a heavy perfume, but it was quiet now. Voices were kept soft and groups packed tightly together. No caller stood under the street post announcing the news headlines from the Prophet or _Witch Weekly_ now. Children did not scurry away from parents, knowing they were never far from someone who would help them, to get a look at the Quidditch supplies or the newest pet in the window. What echoed in the air now was the chime and slam of doors opening and closing, the tempered hush of conversation, and the clack of heels on the cobblestone around them.

Draco was none too pleased that the morning forecast included the incessant drizzle in London rather than the partially clouded sky of home. It was not enough to cause him to pull up the hood of his cloak, but it was enough to make his heels squeak loudly on the marble floor of Gringotts on their way in and out of the hall to pull money out. He and Gregory moved through the crowd in near silence toward each of their destinations. Their arms grew heavier with what they had purchased until the pair arrived at the bookstore. It was, as ever, packed with more people that would be safe if not for magical transportation in an emergency. In years past, the bookstore had been his least favorite of the stops. Now, it was a chance to get yet another novel to finish in the solitude of the guesthouse while avoiding the active Death Eaters as much as possible.

Gregory shoved the last of the extra purchases into the expanded satchel at his side as they stepped through. He found himself blinking almost confused at the faces of Tracey and Daphne. There was a moment of cognitive dissidence with seeing them here compared to the last time—shell-shocked and scared. Tracey’s ruddy curls were pinned back and out of her face and piercing green eyes looking at him critically. She had sharp features and a porcelain complexion not all that different than his own. Daphne was a head taller than her friend with her tawny hair in twin plaits that fell over her shoulders to her front. She had a slightly darker tone to her skin, a bit golden rather than alabaster, and large brown eyes that studied him right back. Almost immediately, Gregory bumped into Draco’s back as he moved into the store and looked up.

“Davis, Greengrass,” Draco choked out. His tongue felt thick. “It has been a while.”

“Malfoy,” Tracey replied. His eyes flicked up to Gregory, but she said nothing. “Finally have time off?”

“Aye, it’s been a busy year at the Ministry.”

“Indeed,” her reply came. She looked him over again. “I did not see you at the Flint wedding.”

“I was not invited,” Malfoy replied. He felt the discomfort of Gregory behind him. “Either way, I felt I wouldn’t have been wanted either way.”

Pansy had of course, immediately found a new partner after he had left her. Draco had not been in any state of mind to be with someone or handle her demanding nature. She was always a more forward and difficult person to handle at the best of times, but after the battle and the death of his father it had been impossible. Yaxley had done nothing but push his fingers into that wound and pushed. He talked of all the ways Pansy was not able to support and better his life. How she would hold him back now that he was on the road to getting back to comfort. He had been pressured into leaving Pansy not three months after the battle. He remembered a lot of sadness and arguing. A lot of saying words with the intent to hurt on both sides.

He had Gregory and his mother to help him recover. He realized maybe for the last few months he had not been emotionally in the relationship. Maybe since he had taken the Mark and lost his choice to be his own person. Since he had everything he knew about his world turned upside-down. But he had held on in the hope of one constant. One person who could be there for him like she always had been. Pansy hero-worshipped his forced choice. He played it up to the damaging pain in his chest.

When he heard she was engaged and quickly married to Marcus Flint within a month of their own breakup, Draco realized she had been looking for her own comfort. She had been raised as the queen of her realm. She had been the favorite of the girls her age. The real prize to be won in that manner. At the fall of their comfort and the rise of something new, the danger was on her in a new way. She clung to Draco in hopes of him marrying her quickly and giving her the expected family and children. The woman had gone to Marcus, who was on the rebound from a few scandals with the news of the wedding and a torrid, quick love affair. It was the comfort she needed for her life.

“How have you been, Goyle,” Daphne asked. Her eyes had not left him.

Draco found he did not like the look in her eyes. It was a mix of seeing him for the first time and a tinge of curiosity. He refused to look over his shoulder at his partner, but he did bite the inside of his cheek. It was not smart or safe to stake his claim. He swallowed.

“I’ve been okay,” Gregory finally said. Draco did not need to see his face to know that the jaw was tense, and face pinched in discomfort.

“Nott said you left your home,” Tracey joined in. Her green eyes left Draco’s finally. “Where are you been since?”

“Narcissa took me in,” he explained tightly. “I have been aiding in the hospitality of the manor.”

Draco tasted bile in his mouth. He had been living with Draco unofficially for nearly six full months now and he wanted it to be that. However, he did know Gregory had been working as a glorified butler in his own home. And he knew how he was treated in that position.

“How kind of her,” Tracey replied coolly. He hummed in reply.

“Must be nice to have your friend around, though,” Daphne added. “Are you two not free to spend time at Blaise’s parties? I know he has reached out.”

“Unfortunately,” Draco replied and attempted to sound apologetic. “I wish I could give him a timeframe in which my presence can be expected.”

“Well, do keep in touch. Astoria and the twins are waiting for us. We will be in the Leaky Cauldron by noon thirty if wish to meet for lunch. Farewell.”

Daphne’s final statement was accompanied by her eyes sliding down Gregory’s form before stepping around them. Tracey offered a small smirk and touched Draco’s arm as she passed. After a moment, he exhaled through his nose and headed toward the back. Gregory’s naturally heavier footsteps followed an acceptable distance until they were tucked in a back corner surrounded by cookbooks and potions ingredient for healthier living. He turned and looked up at Gregory, who looked more humored than annoyed at the exchange.

“Did Daphne check me out back there?” There was _something_ in his voice that just needled the wrong way and Draco clenched his jaw and exhaled heavier. He remembered too well how her eyes had trailed along Gregory’s now fitter form and height with intrigue and not disgust. That seemed to only humor Greg more as the dimples showed the smirk he was trying to hide. “Draco, are you jealous?”

He huffed and turned to look at the book list his mother gave them. He could feel his ears on fire with blush and knew it was easy to spot. He had been jealous, and viciously so. With Pansy, his claim over her was well-known and uncontested. He had never felt that rush of anger as someone else’s eyes fell on the person he cared about. He knew Gregory would not leave for Daphne, especially as she had been as brutal to him as she had been to younger students. He felt fingers on his back and knew Gregory was trying to get him to turn. Reluctantly, he did. What he found was not the teasing face, but a deeper one of knowing and warmth. 

“I know you don’t want to go, Draco,” Gregory started. Draco opened his mouth, annoyed, to argue, but the taller man held his hand up to silence him. Draco closed his mouth and clenched his jaw. “But if we keep avoiding everyone, they will talk. And they will start to raise interest in why we are avoiding everyone.” 

Draco snarled and turned back to the books. He heard the humored but no less insistent chuckle from Gregory and an arm reach over his shoulder to a book, effectively caging him against the shelving but not obviously so. A surge of warmth and pooling want curled in him. All their life, Draco had been made to be the one in charge. The leader, so to speak. He had been the one to throw around his figurative weight all their lives. Now, Gregory did that in a more literal sense, and it had alarmed Draco how much he enjoyed it. The hand so close to him was possessive as it was whenever laid it on the blond. He could feel that satisfaction thrum through his body. 

“I know,” he finally replied, defeated. “Let us get this finished and return with the purchases for my mother. The we can meet them all.” 

“I’ll make it up to you,” Gregory promised. His hand dragged lightly over Draco’s neck by his jaw. 

His mother had not seemed entirely pleased that they were leaving again to meet up with his old friends. In the year since the departure from favor, Narcissa had developed an almost hatred of that group. But, through a tight-lipped grimace, she muttered that it would be good to reconnect with old friends. She was as uncertain of this as Malfoy was, and for good reason. She worried about what would be said of their now existence as gatekeepers and owners of a makeshift hotel. That their fortunes and reputations would be the talk of the dinner now that her son had abandoned that crowd. For Draco, the added fear was that they would notice something was different about him and his views. 

Inside the Leaky Cauldron was different and still alarming, no matter how many times he goes with Yaxley or others in the office. The smoke-laden air was now cleared and less thick. It was brighter, as well, with more candlelight filtering through the room and windows opened. Tom was no longer the one in charge, even if it was under his name. The staff was younger and many of them halfblood or possible blood traitors. There was no proof available to punish them, so the only place which would hire them was the Cauldron or other establishments with little prominence or power. The old, stained tables and bar top were replaced by new, darker wood, the floors were redone, and the walls were cleared of the smoke-tainted color and smell. 

He missed how it once felt to be in there. 

The group in question were in the back of the tavern at a large corner booth and chatting. Daphne and Tracey were sitting by each other. Next to them was Nott and Bulstrode. Nott was a weasel-looking boy still with sharp, pointed features on a thing, gaunt face. He had thick black hair and eyes that were almost the same color. He was dressed sharp as always and his cloak was laid out between he and Millicent. She was much the same as she was the year before. She was tall and broadly built. She was a strong girl; Malfoy watched her a few times effortlessly reorganize the plush couches in the common room when Pansy wished for a certain layout for them to sit in. She was commonly mocked for being heavy, tall, and not attractive. A part of Draco cringed as he had been one of those people, but her hair had been tamed into a decent plait and her skin cleared up. To her other side was Blaise, who had grown out the top of his hair, but the sides remained that close-shorn buzz. The top was just long enough to curl a bit and his deep skin tone was the only one that did not look sickly in the amber lighting. He was handsome, always had been, with his broad features and stunning smile. 

They had not been warned about that part of the group, but the other three were. Astoria was much like her sister but a bit more classic in her beauty. She was fairer and her hair was lighter in shade. She had the same, large brown eyes and was tall. The Carrow twins looked a bit like their cousin Nott with long features, dark eyes and hair, pale complexion, and a general look of disinterest. They turned and looked at Draco, who nodded, and then to Gregory. They sat at the table and a silence settled over the table. 

“Wow,” Nott was the first to speak. His voice was dripping with both sarcasm and darkness. “You look like a different person, Goyle. Not being in school seems to be doing you a favor.” 

“I’ve been well good,” Gregory replied tightly. Draco felt him shift in his seat and bit the inside of his cheek. 

“What is it that you do again,” Nott pushed more with a smirk tugging at his lips. 

“I help at the boarding house where the Dark Lord hosts his ambassadors.” 

“How quaint,” he sneered before looking back at Draco. “Yaxley was praising you the other day while my father had him for dinner.” 

“He’s been a wonderful mentor,” Draco replied tightly. His hands gripped into a fist and itched for Gregory’s. He stayed still. “I’m pleased he has taken a shine to me.” 

The words tasted bad in his mouth, even as he spoke them. He did not want to be in the other man’s good favor, or indeed anywhere near it. All the same, he knew the importance of playing along. His hand twitched a bit. A few eyes turned and looked at him. It was a testament to his baring that no one noticed how much he did not believe his own words. 

“He feels you are ready to start taking on more… interactive cases. Are you excited?” Draco froze minutely. 

“This is the first I am hearing of this,” Draco replied. He made a mental note to check on that. “But I am sure that will be great for moving up in the Ministry.” 

He did not want that. Especially in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He cringed mentally at the idea of becoming in charge of the unjust but now legal. He missed his innocent mind, when he thought this was all okay. Before he had his eyes opened to how wrong this all was, to how much this is all the actual worst-case scenario. 

“How have you been, Nott. I heard your new position has been…” he swallowed. “Enjoyable.” 

“It has been great. Umbridge has been a great boss. She is very dedicated to making sure everything pans out as intended.” 

He did not like how that sounded. Nor did he enjoy the way the conversation began to spin in that direction. A praise of the new order. He watched as Astoria looked away and out into the distance. She was as disinterested in this as he was. It seemed, however, there was no way for him to back out of the lunch early. He was sitting in the center of the table, not in the booth but in the two drawn forward chairs, Gregory on the other. But he listened. Nott and Blaise had been working with Umbridge and the Snatchers to raise catch rates and track down those who had fled almost 2 years ago into other countries such as Spain and France. The Snatchers were now officially licensed by the Ministry and had permission to enter houses without permit if the establishment could have someone there who was illegal. Millicent worked for St. Mungo’s, where he wished to have been employed. She and Daphne worked there. Astoria was able to get in as well and was working at the potions. 

Just over an hour later, the group began to split off to head their separate ways. Gregory and Draco attempted to head off first, but Blaise trapped them in a conversation about the representatives from the Baltics who had stayed the week before. The man apparently was disappointed to have missed them, especially as his mother wished to have made a connection. Considering the rumors that circled the Miss Blaise, it was for the best that they had not met. It could have been an international incident if it had ended as the others had. When he finally ducked away, Draco was startled to have Astoria standing by the exit back into Diagon Alley. Her eyes blinked up at him, both uncertain and startled herself. After a pause, Gregory strolled up and looked between them. Another moment passed before he coughed. Astoria shook herself back into the moment and swallowed. 

She looked so much the same as she had the year before. Young, far too young for everything they were going through, and confident. But she had lost much of the spark in her eyes. That calm, confident desire to push and prod when she was right rather than take the inaccurate information. They had never interacted much, never mind away from Pansy and the brood. 

“Draco,” she breathed and swallowed again. “Could you spare me a moment?” 

“Of course, is there something pressing?” 

“You could say that. Perhaps, we should step out of the doorway. Gregory, if you’d join us?” 

Draco was taken aback for a moment at another Slytherin calling him by his first name. Greg seemed to be just as confused, but he nodded all the same. They followed her around the corner. She looked back and forth down the alley a few times before taking in a deep breath. Draco wanted to roll his eyes at the dramatics but waited patiently. Astoria seemed satisfied with their seclusion and lack of attention. 

“I have been informed there was a chance that you were not as fond of this rubbish as our… peers,” she began cautiously. The response she got was an arched eyebrow and his hand gesturing in a circular pattern to continue. So, she did. “I have some information that I need to get to the right people but no contacts to get it there safely.” 

“And who exactly told you I would be reliable?” Draco asked. “Or Gregory, for that matter?" 

“Maria.” 

Maria Flint. Marcus’ younger sister and his year mate from Hogwarts. She had always been on the outskirts of the group. What he remembered of her in school was her preference for the Ravenclaws—specifically a close bond with Anthony Goldstein and Su Li. She had never been big on the social gatherings; when she was there, she stuck with Megan Jones and other side-lined purebloods who wanted away from the crowd. She, of course, would have read his absence correctly. So he sighed and nodded. 

“Well, she is not wrong,” he offered. It was his turn to look around before licking his lips and pulling the top lip between his teeth. “Who are you trying to reach.” 

“The Pack leaders,” she spat out immediately. She smirked in a self-deprecated way. Like she knew her request was crazy. “Or someone who can talk to them for you. It is important.” 

“Throwing your lot in with Greyback? Or worse, Wagner?” He never thought he would meet someone he liked less than Fenrir, until Wagner came into the political scene. 

“This is more about safety on a whole than picking a side, Draco.” Her voice was now tense and scolding. It made a smirk twitch at his lips, but he nodded all the same. “I work with the potions department. As in prescriptions.” 

“Yes, I am excited for you,” Draco replied dryly. Now he received a scoff. 

“That means I process monthly requests.” _Oh._ His eyes must have widened just enough to give away his moment of realization. “Exactly. On average, we process almost one hundred requests from across the British Isles. These are usually for people who can’t brew their own or are not in with the Pack healers. I was… reviewing the purchase list for next month’s batch and there was something off about it. It’s a tricky potion, after all. Very easy to ruin or make deadly.” 

Draco felt as though the warmth and comfort from his soul had been sucked away in a moment faster than the hungriest dementor entering the area. There were two ways that would go. People being poisoned was sadly the best option. It would cause the two pack leaders to riot and allow the Death Eaters to call open season on them. With their snatchers licensed through the packs, it would be easy to sway loyalty in their minds. The other option is one hundred wolves turning, assuming they will safely survive the moon as a sleepy, docile beast only to rampage and possibly hurt or kill others. This would trigger a new wave of anti-werewolf propaganda, and also cause an open season. Draco took in a long, deep breath. His mind was narrowing, and he felt his body clenching and tensing as the panic bubbled and threatened to take over. A warm hand placed low on his back, and the blond closed his eyes and forced the exhale and following inhale. 

“I believe I can get this information to the right people,” he finally replied. He took in another deep breath and looked at Astoria. She was shaken and scared. Another child in a war they did not want, living a life they could not back. 

“Draco,” she paused and sighed. “We can’t let this turn into a fight. We’re too weak as it is. This would be a blood bath, and I don’t think it would be the Ministry who wins now.” 

“I’ll see to it. Astoria, I highly suggest removing the memory for and destroying the container with it.” She nodded and cleared her throat. Her nose and eyes were started to turn red as she held back the tears. “Thank-you. And tell Maria...” 

He paused. He was not sure what he wanted to say, Thank you for the trust, perhaps. Be careful fit as well. But the words seemed to stick. He locked eyes with Astoria, who just nodded. She turned and walked away hurriedly. He focused on the warm hand pressing into his back. He exhaled heavily and looked at Gregory. Draco was pulled flush to Gregory; he instinctively gripped the other man’s upper arm. With an unpleasant tug at his navel and a swoop that always caused his stomach to churn and throat clench, they were in his room. 

Draco pressed his hand to Gregory’s chest and fingers pressed into his chest. Then hand was still on his back, but the other nudged his chin up. He let his eyes glide up and found Gregory looking down, equal parts concerned and proud. He tapped Draco’s chin again. A hint the blond knew well. It was easy to rise to his toes just enough and let his lips press into Gregory’s. They were always chapped, but he had grown to enjoy that and the patchiness of his mustache hairs. He sighed out his nose when the pad of Gregory’s finger stroked below Draco’s ear at the hinge of his jaw. 

“I need to get in touch with the Weasley,” Draco murmured as they separated. 

“How the mighty have fallen,” Gregory joked. He pressed another kiss to Draco’s lips and wrapped his hands around the crown of Draco’s hair and held them forehead to forehead. 

“I feel like I’ve been tossed back into the deep end,” Draco admitted. He let his partner keep comforting him. “But I stood back last time.” 

“I’ll be there for you,” Gregory promised. Draco swallowed and choked a moment. “What’s the plan.” 

“Talk to Weasley. Have her convince Brown to meet with us unofficially.” Draco inhaled and exhaled shakily. “And hope she can keep her guard dog from attacking.” 

Gregory pressed his lips to Draco’s forehead as a knock sounded through the door. The two men jumped apart, as Narcissa spoke through it. 

“Draco, darling. Yaxley was by earlier while you were out. He was hoping you would accompany him on the next trip to Bulgaria. He insisted on it really.” 

“Thank-you, mother. I will write him immediately. Did we get all you needed?” His eyes were locked, feeling the panic again, on Gregory’s who was mouthing his own confusion. 

“Yes, love.” 

“Wonderful. We will be down in a moment if you want to spend time in the common area.” 

Narcissa agreed and they listened to her heels click down the granite flooring. A moment passed of silence and Gregory exhaled heavily. His eyes searched Draco’s as the paranoia began to build. A week alone with Yaxley was the last thing he wanted to have happen. And with his trip tied exclusively to the older man, he was trapped. 


End file.
